


Pselkie

by song_of_staying



Category: Psmith - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-25 14:41:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10766328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/song_of_staying/pseuds/song_of_staying
Summary: A boarding school story.





	Pselkie

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aurilly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurilly/gifts).



> Dear recipient, happy reveals! I've been planning to write for you for a while now, because I always enjoy reading your letters. I hope this will work for you!

Mike’s train was delayed because of the strike organized by the Society of His Majesty’s Palm-readers. These public servants, having pooled their collective prophetic power, found that they were dissatisfied with their current and future wages, so they took matters into their own hands. On a good day, Mike was sympathetic to the plight of the common man. But it was in no way a good day. When Mike finally arrived to Sedleigh, several hours late and bored beyond endurance, he most uncharitably spat 'charlatans!' at the general crowd.

The journey to the schoolhouse was long and seemed designed to mock Mike personally: the sun was setting in a concert of orange and gold, the stream tinkled away merrily, naiads gamboled, birds sang their evening songs, and nobody took the time to ask one stoically displeased boy whether he belonged here or not.

At least Outwood House was reasonably decent-looking, solid and unmoving. Mike could not have endured any magical architectural pretensions just then.

The door was opened by a boy of Mike’s own age. His face was narrow and his uniform impeccably clean. He carried a monocle, and a split lip. The contrast between these two features gave Mike a moment’s pause.

“I say,” he said, “that looks fresh.”

The boy dismissed this concern with a tilt of his head. “Who are you? The pride of the school, the rowdy adventurist, the true scholar who lives only for his runes?”

Mike disliked all of these options. “I’m new.”

“Indeed! I am also, as you say, new, and quite unprecedented. I was transferred from Eton this morning. And yourself?”

“From Wrykyn.” He shrugged, heavily, as a man standing on the ruins of his empire, looking toward new horizons. “I live in Crofton though.”

The boy beamed at the news, and Mike found himself smiling back. Even in his moment of gloom, it was good to think of home.

“My home is near Lower Benford,” the boy said, “have you been there?”

“Of course.” Mike nodded. “Prime fishing spot. Beautiful fields.”

The boy beamed wider, and patted Mike's elbow, all kindly approval. “Shall I present you to Mage Outwood?”

“What’s he like?”

“A most caring and careful soul. Protective as she-wolf in her lair, though somewhat more easily led.”

Mike accepted this news grimly. A protective form master can be a serious obstacle to one’s leisure.

“However,” said the boy, “however.”

Mike waited, patient. He was in no hurry to meet his fate.

“However, should you imply to have a particular understanding with genii loci - a knack for house spirits, you understand – you might win Mage Outwood’s lenience. He has a great respect for the talent, and possesses none of it.”

“What rot,” said Mike, who preferred his magic to be as straightforward as his pitches.

“Prime rot,” the boy agreed. “Yet it seems to be the sort of rot that can get one off the grounds on the week’s end, or provide a useful excuse in a tight spot.”

Mike saw the advantages to this, and found himself smiling.

“Thanks,” he said, and offered his hand. “I’m Jackson.”

“Smith is the name I inherited. A name so common, it may lead to hijinks. Smith! someone might cry, and I would dash towards him, over field and glen, with tears in my eyes and joy in my heart, knowing that someone, somewhere, deigned to call to me - only to find that he meant a first-year from another house, or yet the fellow who brings carrots to the mess hall.”

Mike agreed that this sort of confusion was to be avoided, and buried his hands in his pockets. Smith hadn’t shaken his hand, but Mike didn't think it was a deliberate insult. The boy chatted on.

“It is, as ever, left to the bravest sons to bury their forefathers’ mistakes. I have decided to return some glory to the Smith family name.”

“Oh?”

“P. A silent P, hidden at the beginning – as in Ptolemaic. It needn’t be marked in speech, but if you ever have opportunity to write to me, I would be obliged if you used it.”

“All right.” Mike wasn’t a good correspondent, but he supposed anything was possible. Psmith led the way through a hallway - spacious, still no nonsense with disappearing doors and such - and into a cozy, warm room.

Mage Outwood was a kindly-looking man, cradling a foggy-looking crystal ball. He looked somewhat ill at ease.

“Uh, thank you, uh, Smith.” Psmith nodded, and stood next to Mike, perfectly silent.

Ball set aside carefully, Outwood stood up, and put his hands on Mike’s shoulders.

“I formally welcome you to Outwood house,” he said, and his eyes were fixed on Psmith.

“Uh,” Mike said, “thank you, sir?”

This seemed to complete the ceremony, because Outwood released him, and Psmith left the office immediately.

“My name is Jackson, sir,” Mike said. “I’m from Crofton.”

Mike swiftly learned that Crofton was near the Cluniac Priory of St. Ambrose, a place of very strong energies. He nodded obediently, and murmured, “I’ve always felt so, sir. There was a certain presence.”

This was enough to unlock a secret joy in Outwood’s soul. A longer and more passionate lecture followed, and Mike contributed with a nod and a smile whenever Outwood faltered. Outwood, it followed, had no sense of the genii loci, but he enjoyed reading about them and hearing first-hand accounts from the more gifted.

“Are there any other interesting places nearby, sir? With presences?”

There were. Mike was to come and visit all of them with Outwood. He was not to go alone, unless there was a spiritual emergency. This suited Mike wonderfully.

“I suppose you should get settled,” Outwood said at last. “If you need anything, anything at all, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

Most of all, Mike needed to be back at Wrykyn, but he shrugged that thought away once more.

He found the form room on his own. The younger boys had already gone to bed. Mike felt somewhat reluctant to make his introductions, and relieved to find Psmith standing by the mantel.

Mike made his way to Psmith directly. He had questions, about the unusual way Outwood had treated Psmith, and about the classes, and about where a fellow might go on a spiritual emergency if he wanted to. Psmith smiled at him, and his lip had swollen in the interim. It had been a very fresh cut.

“Here! New boy!” called a weedy-looking fellow who was playing with a tarot deck. “You certainly took your time getting here.”

Mike nodded, icily.

“Have you heard the news?” continued the weedy one. He waited for a response, but Mike refused to offer one. He felt a headache coming on.

“We have a special guest this year,” the boy continued. “The one you’re standing next to - you will never guess what he is.”

As far as Mike was concerned, Psmith was a link to home, as well as a source of dashed good advice. He folded his arms tightly and glowered at the weed.

“He’s a selkie!” The weed shuffled his tarot, looking entirely gleeful. “Do you know them? Unnatural seal-skinned fellows. They come to dry land, hunting for our girls, wreaking havoc - they’re supposed to be handsome devils, but I daresay this one is an exception. I don’t dare guess what he wants from Sedleigh.”

Mike studied Psmith. The weed studied Mike. Psmith studied his cufflinks.

The weed broke the silence first. “Well?"

“My name is Jackson,” Mike said. “It is dashed rude to start jawing without introducing yourself.”

The weed went pink. Psmith looked up.

“I’m tired,” Mike said to Psmith, and offered a hand. “Where’s a good place to sleep?”

This time, Psmith took the handshake, though it was over very quickly. He led Mike to a small dormitory.

“I sleep here,” said Psmith. “You’re welcome to any of the three beds - I use this one, but it would not be an unthinkable hardship to move.”

Mike chose an unoccupied one beside the window.

“Did those fellows deck you in the face?”

“A memento from a particularly boisterous welcome. Such jovial spirits these Sedleigh lads have! Such willingness to include one in their throng!”

“Well,” Mike said. “We will see to the matter tomorrow.”

“You have a gift for ominous statements, Comrade Jackson,” Psmith said. “May I call you Comrade? I am a socialist, you see.”

“Were you taught socialism by your people?” Mike had only the vaguest idea about selkies. He thought he might have read about them going on strike as well.

“No, by a pamphlet, this very morning.” Psmith shrugged, all dignity. “Seems like a great scheme.”

Mike conceded that it had some possibilities. Exhaustion was weighing down on him like a curse.

“Let’s sleep,” he said, and settled somewhat comfortably. The bed was no worse and no better than it had been at Wrykyn. “I bet some blighter will come wake us before dawn.” He felt that Sedleigh was an early-morning type of school.

“Good night, Comrade Jackson,” Psmith said, and blew a candle out.

* * *

Mike was surprised to find that they were allowed to sleep until the respectable hour of eight in the morning. Breakfast was offensively unremarkable. Nonetheless Psmith remarked upon it at length, and Mike agreed with his assessments.

In Latin, Psmith composed astrology sheets. His predictions were entirely fabricated, and Mike snickered as he read them. Mike worked on a letter to Marjory. He felt obliged to write to his father as well, but he delayed it - there was a resentment there still, though Mike was too fair-minded to blame their schism on his father entirely. His fraternal missive finished, Mike’s thoughts turned to cricket. He was coming to the decision that he would ignore the game altogether.

During lunch, Psmith presented him with a selection of schemes, though he delivered each of them in a theoretical way – he didn’t commit to participating.

“Will you join Mage Outwood’s poltergeist-hunting club?” Mike asked at last.

Psmith cleaned his monocle. “Comrade Mage Outwood and I have a mutual passion that cannot be explained. He is very invested in my safety, and I in his happiness. He is like a second father to me. As with any father, it is vital for us to avoid each other when at all possible.”

“Why was the fellow so awkward about you yesterday?”

“That was merely another expression of his humbling concern for me, Comrade Jackson.”

It was becoming clear to Mike that this topic was an uncomfortable one for his friend, so he changed the subject readily enough.

“Have you any thoughts on cricket?” It was the first thing that had come to mind. He quickly decided that merely asking about the game would not go against his slowly-congealing vow of abstinence.

“None at all,” Psmith said, cheerily. “If some fellows enjoy wasting their time and dignity in the arena of school cricket, I cannot judge their decision, only mourn it from afar.”

“Right.”

Psmith’s smile dimmed as he studied Mike. “If you are planning to play for the school, I will mourn only very little and privately. Has the unthinkable happened? Did Psmith speak too rashly?”

Mike scowled. “No, indeed. I agree with you. An embarrassment is what it is, especially in a place like this.”

“Just so!” Psmith grinned.

Mike smiled back, and offered to share the last of Marjory’s lemon cakes.

In the following days, Mike made some discoveries. Sedleigh life wasn’t unbearable, despite all of his efforts to fail bearing it. They did play cricket, and they did it somewhat better than he expected, though worse – he was sure – than he would ever deign to care about. The Mages were the same as Mages ever were – fine for the most part, but sometimes unforgivably foolish. The main difference was that, back at Wrykyn, there was always a friend around to share a significant glance with Mike, to mark that the foolishness hadn't gone unnoticed. Here, most everyone avoided looking at him.

The weed from the first night, Spiller, had spilt some unpleasant rumours about Mike’s unfriendliness. This grated: though Mike had planned to declare himself an outsider from the beginning, he wanted it done on his own terms.

It took two weeks for the other boys to start talking to Mike. Maybe that was just how long Spiller’s influence extended, or maybe it was that Mike himself was thawing and they sensed it. He grew to like some of them – Jellicoe with the nervous disposition, Lester with the warm eyes – and others he merely tolerated. Psmith made himself scarce when a number of the others gathered around. Mike supposed he was a solitary sort. This suited Mike perfectly: they spent solitary afternoons together, more sedate than Mike was used to, but no less fun. Psmith had an opinion about everything, and enjoyed hearing about home. His observations on the Mages provided a splendid substitute for the camaraderie of mocking them in the moment. His horoscopes were hilarious.

It took three weeks for Spiller to hit Psmith again.

This time, the bruise was on Psmith's shoulder, and he refused to show it. He looked just as sanguine as he had been in the beginning. Mike only heard of the fight from Jellicoe. Jellicoe had been wide-eyed and slightly disapproving – the prefects had looked away, he said. Psmith had done nothing to protect himself, he said.

Mike’s instinct had been to snap at Jellicoe. He hadn’t.

Mike watched his friend stay perfectly, unnaturally still, when Mike sat beside him on his bed.

“Why did you let those fellows do that?”

Psmith shrugged, then winced slightly and touched the shoulder. Mike looked away. Surely, a coward would be less stoic about injury! Yet there was little else to call a boy who was hit twice by the same skinny nothing schoolmate, and never lifted a finger to defend himself.

Mike tried to recall Psmith’s monologues – perhaps there had been an explanation there that he’d missed.

“Are you a whatsit?” he offered. “A pacifist?”

“What a notion,” Psmith said, voice entirely jolly but mouth still tight around the edges. “A beautiful philosophy. A civilized man’s fortress.”

It was no kind of answer.

“You needn’t beat them,” Mike said. “Only show that you won’t let yourself be -” he stopped, frustrated. He had no desire to insult his friend, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to find the right words.

“I mouthed off to them,” Psmith said, and there is a coldness there Mike hadn’t heard before. “I insulted Spiller’s magical ability and taste and lineage. I had a well-chosen observation about each of his lap-dogs. Or did dear Comrade Jellicoe forget to report on that? An inferior and insufficient Herodotos, that boy.”

“You’re right,” Mike said, somewhat relieved. “I didn’t see what happened.”

“No. But then, if you had been around, it would not have happened. Experiment: ruined. Valuable data on the behavior of the domesticated Psmith unleashed in the wild: lost forever.”

Mike didn’t want to apologize – he hadn’t done anything wrong – but he didn’t want this to continue either.

He opened his mouth to say something, but then Psmith’s shoulders sank, and he looked away. Mike felt like he’d been tripped in the field.

“I’m sorry,” Psmith said. He hadn’t done anything wrong either. “I've monopolized you quite enough, Comrade. Not in line with the principles of socialism at all. Nor fraternity and those other ones either. I release you from your bonds of pity.”

 _What?_ “What!”

“I appreciate, more than I could say, your willingness to keep me company even after you have learned of my – of my nature. But your short-sighted and plucky nobility of spirit is - ” he cut himself off. “I mean to say, I am grateful, truly. But you should find a different dormitory.”

Mike bit down on the inside of his cheek. Psmith rose up and nodded to him, formal as ever. Mike watched him leave. He thought about it – about Psmith returning at bed-time in chilly silence. About going to breakfast tomorrow and sitting with someone else.

He thought about the glances Jellicoe had been throwing Psmith – wary and amused and just on the edge of gawking. He remembered the way Adair had come over, with a determined sort of stride, only to glare at Psmith and stride away.

He thought about his old school, and about what his friends would say if he told them his new best friend was a coward. Some chaps just didn’t want to fight, he thought, and it sounded acceptable. Some chaps didn’t like cricket at all! Some would allow themselves to be punched – had he ducked or stood still? - and walk away whistling.

Mike stood up, feeling like a fool. He had missed his strike, but the game wasn’t over, and he would win it still.

He found Psmith outside, under the tree they had agreed was less aggravating than the rest of the garden. He was building a tower of tarot cards, and failing to make it higher than two levels.

“There’s a bit of a breeze,” Mike said. “That’s why it’s falling down.”

“You should continue it in our room,” Mike said. “I’ll show you some tricks I learned when I had the pox.”

“Look, it wasn’t my fault,” Mike said. “I would have stepped in if I’d been there.”

“I know that,” Psmith snapped.

“It wasn’t your fault either,” Mike went on. “Spiller and his lackeys are just bloody-minded like that. They need to be stopped, but it doesn’t need to come from you.”

“You will not go beat up anyone in my name,” Psmith said, and he sounded tired. “I forbid it.”

“Whatever you want,” Mike promised. “I can also hide their things, or -”

“No!”

“- write to their fathers anonymously -”

“You’re offering to be a snitch now?”

“- or not do anything at all.”

“Yes. That is my preference.”

“Going to Outwood would be snitching. Going to their paters is just causing trouble.”

Psmith shook his head. That had done nothing to fix the problem. But at least he wasn’t sending Mike away.

Mike sat down beside him, and the sad attempt at the tarot castle collapsed entirely.

“If you do want to sleep elsewhere, Comrade Mage Outwood must be notified,” Psmith said, not looking at him. “The matron will have to be involved as well, but he is the one we must go to first.”

“I will not sleep elsewhere,” Mike said. “Neither with you. Come now. Please?”

Psmith smiled at him, sideways. Mike started building the doomed tower all over again, and Psmith joined in soon enough.

* * *

“I apologize for yesterday’s histrionics, Comrade Jackson. It must have been my aquatic nature acting up.”

Mike shrugged, all eloquence. The matter was closed.

“Comrade Adair’s eyebrows are attempting to summon you. It must be a daily struggle for them, communicating all of his intentions while the rest of his face slacks off. Will you take pity on them?”

Mike snorted, but walked up to Adair regardless. He wasn’t the worst chap. Merely odd, in a boring way.

Some fellows had walked up to Psmith, but Mike didn’t turn around. If there was a row, he would notice in time.

“I received some very unexpected news,” Adair said, ominous. “Nobody told me you were Jackson.”

“I introduced myself and all,” Mike said, helpful.

“But, you’re Jackson! How dare you keep – when was the last time you played?”

Mike flushed in annoyance. He had started missing it, from the skin inwards. He still refused to play for Sedleigh, but oh, to play at all! Even with Marjory! Even with Psmith!

Would Psmith know how to hold a bat? Well, he could retrieve balls well enough though. Or at least do so once or twice, and then complain entertainingly.

“I will not play here,” Mike said, cutting an end to the daydreams. “I shan’t.”

“Too good for this place?” Adair looked forbidding.

“Yes,” Mike shrugged. “As a matter of fact.”

“Come with me outside, and I'll teach you some respect.”

Mike scowled, squared his shoulders - and suddenly, all of his boiling annoyance turned to boredom. This fight was boring, Adair was even more boring than he'd previously thought. He looked at Adair’s fists, and stepped back.

“I am not going anywhere with you,” he said, all scorn.

One of the fists flew out, and hit him in the ear. Mike stumbled. He took his time standing up, aware of everyone’s gaze on him. He sank both hands into his pockets. His face didn’t waver at all. He shrugged again.

Psmith was at his side, with wide eyes and fingers steady on his cufflinks. “A philosophical disagreement?” he offered, steady as anything.

“Will you stay out of it, unnatural freak,” Adair demanded, looking uneasy.

“No,” Psmith said. “I am not even entirely sure yet what ‘it’ signifies.”

He stepped slightly closer to Adair. “But even my unnatural mind is sharp enough to deduce it is to do with Sedleigh pride, or cricket, or both. Nothing worthwhile, in any case.”

The insult settled onto Adair. “Will you come away and let me teach you a lesson?”

“Come away? My dear man. I’m not allowed off of these grounds. I hold our house rules sacred as the Testament.”

Adair bristled. Mike was curious to see how this would end. The crowd around them was muttering, and public favor wasn't entirely on Adair's side - he hadn’t hit Mike when his back was _entirely_ turned, but perhaps it was still something of a backstabbing punch. Adair himself was coming to be aware of this. With a last glare – indeed involving only his eyebrows - he stalked away, and Mike exhaled.

“What a temperamental young man,” Psmith mused. “Shall I escort you to the matron? Your battle wounds are staining your collar.”

Mike hadn’t noticed he was bleeding. He followed Psmith, feeling sheepish and jittery in equal measure.

“Are you contemplating the beauty of pacifism?” Psmith asked.

“Dashed difficult thing to do,” Mike muttered. “He is such a punchable chap.”

“Indeed, that is one of his qualities.”

Psmith’s lips were pursed but he held on to Mike’s elbow – something he hadn’t done since the first night. He seemed to be contemplating something, but Mike figured he would hear about it sooner or later.

There were some unexpected consequences to the event: more Sedleighans were willing to talk now, with both Mike and Psmith. At the same time, more were willing to taunt them, and Mike found himself dreaming of a good fight with some frequency. He missed cricket more than ever.

Psmith was the first one to lose his temper. But it wasn’t to a student at all, but a Mage, and Mike was of no help there.

Downing hated most students, and that was all well and good. But for Psmith he had a hissing intolerance that had stopped being amusing after the first month. It was clear that, to Downing, Psmith was not a ‘good healthy boy’. Mike suspected he didn’t see Psmith as any kind of boy at all.

“There is nothing for your kind to gain here,” Downing announced, leaning forward. Mike was uncomfortably aware of the others surrounding them – Jellicoe, Ashton, Lester. They were staring with naked fascination. Psmith did not move.

“On the contrary, sir." His voice was cold. "My kind has always come to the dry land seeking valuable knowledge, as well as companionship.”

There was a slightest hint of indecency where Psmith said ‘companionship’. It made Downing flush to the temple.

“Outwood will hear of this impertinence,” Downing snarled.

“He is a man of many sources,” Psmith said, nodding rapidly. “Perhaps his crystal balls have already informed him.”

Downing seemed ready to slap him, but pulled back in the last moment.

“This is not over,” he said at last, and stomped away.

Psmith lowered his shoulders, slightly. Mike grasped his wrist and pulled him away from the classroom. The library would be quiet and cool, and any rants Psmith might have building up would have some privacy between the shelves.

“Comrade Jackson,” Psmith said, now entirely calm and dignified. “If Comrade Downing lives up to his word – and I am sure he will - and I am summoned to Comrade Mage Outwood tonight -”

“Yeah?”

“If I am unusual in any way, when I return – compared to my usual stale predictability, you understand - please pay it no heed. I will be well.”

Mike felt his gut twist up.

“What's he going to do?”

“Nothing severe,” Psmith said dismissively. “On a ship, he would be overrun with mutineers even before the rum ran out. He doesn’t even own a lash, can you believe it?”

Mike waved this away impatiently. “Does he perform magic on you?” he demanded.

Psmith smiled, and Mike felt more unsettled than ever. “It is not something that needs to be performed,” his said, shaking his head like a sheep-dog. “Don’t worry yourself about it, I beg you most humbly. I shall lead by example.”

He rummaged through the shelves, looking, he explained, for saucily illustrated astrology guides, because even the most accurate predictions went stale if they lacked a visual component. Mike kept calm when a first year appeared with a summons to Outwood. He kept calm throughout dinner. He kept calm when he loaned Jellicoe a pound.

Then Psmith returned, with no limp and no smell of ozone around him, and Mike exhaled very deeply.

“It was merely a warning!” Psmith said, cheerful. “I am to avoid clashing with Comrade Downing, and he, in turn, is to avoid punishing me at all. Harmony is restored! Justice has returned to the land!”

Still, in the coming days, Mike noticed that Psmith was avoiding the other boys with even more care than usual. He even fled from Jellicoe, who was exactly as terrifying as a kitten, and was probably looking for more money to borrow.

Trouble arrived four days later, and Mike hadn’t expected it from Robinson. Even from his new outlook as a pacifist, Mike considered Robinson to be an acceptable chap. Perhaps not entirely free from the sin of violence, but not cruel in any methodical way.

So when Mike came across Psmith sitting on the floor, polishing Robinson’s cricket bat for him, he waited for a few moments for a sane explanation.

“I understand why you keep him around now,” Robinson said. “He’s quite a useful chap, isn’t he. Entertaining as well!”

Psmith kept working, making no remarks. He was pale.

“It’s a good thing Downing let it slip,” Robinson continued, and nudged Psmith with his foot, lightly, "or we would have missed out on the fun."

Mike decided that, even if grabbing Robinson’s throat was against the tenets of pacifism, grabbing his collar would be acceptable.

“What?” He demanded, and shook him. Psmith said nothing still. “What did Downing let slip?”

“That Smith is magic-bound to obey us all.” Robinson was scowling at him. “And there’s no call for that now. I understand why you preferred to keep it all to yourself! But I think we all deserve a go. It's just so fascinating, when else would one meet a selkie?”

Mike bit into his own lip, hard, and shoved Robinson away. “Leave. Now. Right now.”

“But my bat!” Mike wrenched it out of Psmith’s hold. For a moment, he considered using it as a weapon. Instead, he pushed it into Robinson's hand, and shoved him toward the door. Robinson was plainly curious, and not all that impressed by Mike, but still left quickly.

Mike sank down on the floor beside his friend, and scowled at him.

“Outwood enchanted you?” Psmith had said it was nothing to worry about – why had Mike believed it?

“Comrade Mage Outwood merely tightened some bonds that were already in place.” Psmith looked unharmed. He took out his monocle, slowly. He was addressing Mike’s collarbones. “They weren’t put there by him to begin with.”

“Then who?”

“You truly don’t know anything about selkies, do you?”

“Not a thing.”

“Our skin – our seal-skin. It is something we shed, like a coquette sheds her stylish mink coat, when we come on land. But it is not ours to keep. The first mortal to find it will command us.”

“And Outwood - ?”

“No. My pater. He fell in love with a fine selkie lass, in the tradition of small land-owners from all across the isle. She left him, of course. I stayed. But my father has some ideas for me, and those ideas included an education – not with any goal that he could hold onto for more than a month, mind you – and so I was sent to school. But I can’t survive without my skin nearby. So it was given to Comrade Mage Outwood for safekeeping. And he made use of it, to ensure the safety of his house.”

“And at Eton?”

“At Eton,” here Psmith finally frowned. “At Eton, it was the Head Boy’s. That was not a happy experience.”

Mike didn’t want to imagine it. Mike wanted to know all about it, and to go back, and bash everyone’s heads in.

“It is much better here." Psmith seemed to mean it, but Mike didn't like the studied lightness in his voice. "Comrade Mage Outwood forbade me from fighting back, of course, or harming anyone in any way.”

“Oh.”

“Now that obedience is added to it, some will be inclined to make it hot for me.” He shrugged. “It will lose its novelty soon. At least you have no secret demands to make of me!”

He looked at Mike, his smile small and careful, and Mike shook his head, rapidly. Of course not. Nothing secret at all.

“Your skin. Whoever has it can tell you what to do?”

“That is exactly so.”

“What if you took it?”

“Sorry?”

“We could break into Outwood’s bedroom, and look around for it.”

“He keeps it in his office in a cupboard, actually,” Psmith said, now genuinely amused. “He is a trusting soul. But Comrade Jackson, you are forgetting that such magics always come with a safeguard – I am not allowed to go looking for it, or even to touch it. No selkie can own his own skin, and stay on land.”

“But if someone else took it, they could - “

“Well. Yes. And Comrade Downing had petitioned for the key."

Mike grit his teeth.

"But I don’t think Comrade Mage Outwood will lend it out – well, frankly, I don’t think he remembers where the key is, not off-hand, so Downing’s pestering will be ineffectual.”

“Do _you_ know where the key is?”

“Of course. He hid it in an abridged tome of the Malleus Maleficarum. He thought it would be appropriate, though couldn’t explain why exactly. I didn't go looking! I merely observed.”

Mike wanted to pace, but didn’t want to let go of Psmith’s shoulder. He settled for beating a nervous rhythm on Psmith’s knee. A strategy was coming together.

“Go to our dorm,” he said – dash it. “I mean, do what you want, but I would like it if you went there, and made sure someone saw you on the way. I’ll be there very soon.”

For the first time since Mike had met him, Psmith looked stunned. He had questions. Mike left a quick kiss on his forehead - an impulse, coming from a man with a mission - and answered none of them. It was a relief that Psmith didn't follow. The safeguard he had mentioned could interfere with the scheme.

Outwood was at the genii loci club meeting, the third one in a row that Mike had failed to attend. If he came back early and caught him in the act, Mike would be sent home. His father wouldn't forgive him.

But if everything went well, Mike would retrieve the key, use it, and return it. Outwood would never even notice the skin was gone.

The cupboard opened easily, but it took Mike some time to find what he was looking for. The skin looked nothing like an animal's carcass - Mike had envisioned himself smuggling a dead seal from empty classroom to empty classroom. Instead, it looked something like a silvery vest. It was smooth, and very cold to the touch, but otherwise unremarkable, lost in the clutter of the cupboard.

Its shape gave Mike a new option to consider: he removed his robe, draped the skin around his shoulders - it felt icy even through his undershirt - and got dressed again. He locked the cupboard, and slipped the key into his shoe.

Just as Mike straightened, Downing slammed into the office without knocking. For a moment, he and Mike locked gazes. Mike's chest was very cold. The key was digging into his left heel. His heart was beating madly, and his nails dug into his palms.

"Sir!" he said, and smiled. "Are you waiting for Mage Outwood as well?"

"Impertinence!" Downing was angry, in the bitter and focused way of a man in the wrong. He was not here on Outwood's invitation. "How dare you enter a Mage's sanctum without permission?"

"Reluctantly, sir," Mike said. "I hope Mage Outwood will return soon, so I can explain the matter to him. It is urgent. "

"Urgent? Pah!"

Silence stretched between them. In time, the door opened again.

Mage Outwood returned from his club meeting in flowering good spirits. He was not prepared to see a very bland student and a thunderously enraged Mage standing by his shelves.

Mike listened to Downing's ranting accusations with blank patience. It seemed that Downing had noticed nothing of Psmith's friendship with Mike - or maybe he thought it too distasteful to mention - and indeed knew very little about Mike at all. By necessity, his complaints about Mike's behavior were non-specific. Still, he had many. By the time he got to the matter of Mike invading Outwood's office, the atmosphere in the room was one of exhaustion.

"Jackson? What have you to say about, er, all this?"

"There was a poltergeist, sir."

Outwood and Downing both flushed.

"What was that, my boy?"

"A spirit. I followed it here. It is a troublemaker, sir." He knew very little of poltergeists, but he knew this: "It likes hiding items, sir. I thought it best to follow it and make sure it had no opportunity. I'm not sure I arrived on time."

He smiled, the school-spirit kind of smile that Mages inexplicably tended to accept as genuine. Even Downing was unable to formulate his skepticism.

"Perhaps you should call for an exorcist, sir," he finished, letting the smile melt away into a more natural frown. "One can never be too careful."

Calling an exorcist was one of Outwood's dreams. What use were spirits of the home, if one couldn't make a fuss and expel them from it? That was the way of these things. He knew several excellent chaps for the job, trustworthy and experienced, and he'd write to all of them, just in case.

Downing sent Mike away. The question of his own presence in the office hadn't been discussed. It seemed unlikely that he would be able to draw Outwood's attention to the matter of the key. Not for some days. If he succeeded, and if Outwood found its location in the clutter of his mind, Mike hoped that the spiritual emergency would be blamed for its disappearance.

Tonight, Psmith would be free. By tomorrow, they could reconsider the tenets of pacifism together, if Psmith wanted to, starting with Robinson, and working their way back. And then, when the weather cleared, they could sneak off the grounds, and find a good place to play cricket.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my friends for their support, and to fail_fandomanon for some really great conversations about this canon!


End file.
